Viva Los Angeles!
I hated L.A. before I went to L.A., and that's part of the problem.
As a kid, I was enthralled with Los Angeles and all things Hollywood. I dreamed of moving there someday, starry-eyed and full of dreams.
Then I hit adolescence and decided I wanted nothing to do with that cheesy town of questionable ethics. I was more of a New York girl. Which was quite a declaration for a 13-year-old basing the decision on nothing more than discovering “Saturday Night Live” and the Ramones.
And yet I held onto those anti-L.A. feelings well into adulthood. It wasn’t that I spent time dwelling on my dislike; I just didn’t keep L.A. on my radar. I had zero desire to ever go there.
In 2012 I made my first California trip, to Salinas in Monterey County, about a five-hour drive north of Los Angeles. I visited a dear friend, made friends with her people, and went to a conference at the John Steinbeck Center about Woody Guthrie that changed my life. I had my shoes stolen by the Pacific Ocean in Santa Cruz, missed a flight in San Francisco, and ate flaming hot fried artichoke hearts in the Artichoke Capital of the World.
In other words, I had a great time. My problem wasn’t with California. Just Los Angeles. Too sunny. Too beachy. Too image-obsessed, shallow, and expensive. Bunch of coddled rich people, right?
It took another eight years for someone else to talk me into coming to California, and this time it was an offer in L.A. I couldn’t refuse. I have a pack of friends in L.A. I met through Wilco fandom who’d spent years encouraging me to visit. It wasn’t until one of them bought a ticket for me to see Patti Smith at the Walt Disney Concert Hall, one of the best rooms for music in the world, that I finally considered going to shudder L.A.
Just so we’re clear, I’d get into an unmarked panel van with strangers if they offered me a Patti Smith ticket.
I flew into Los Angeles on March 3, 2020. Burbank, specifically, so I wasn’t accosted by the size and chaos of LAX, and because I was staying in the Valley near some of my friends.
And oh, Los Angeles was ready for me. She rolled out the red carpet as soon as I walked out of the airport and into the rental car area, where the clerk upgraded me to … a Jaguar.
While my driving record is clean of accidents and tickets, I’m hell on cars. My current vehicle is less than five years old, has 75,000 miles on it, and is covered with mystery dents and scratches, and missing a lot of trim. I do not know where all the sesame seeds in the passenger seat came from, sorry.
But sure! I’ll take that Jaguar, turn up the Beach Boys, roll down the windows, and go!
I found myself at a pie shop/coffeehouse combo—Republic of Pie. Coffee is my favorite thing, and pie’s a close second. Sitting outside with a dirty horchata and sparkling water, I admired the birds of paradise and palm trees. The people-watching included an extremely attractive man with a guitar case who didn’t seem to notice my existence. I chalked it up to being totally out of my league, which was fine. I wasn’t looking for anything, anyway.
Except when I went inside for another coffee and a slice of pie, he hit on me. But he was so gosh darn polite and gentlemanly about it that we talked at length and became close friends over the years.
For four days I had one of the best trips of my life. I spent time exploring with friends and finding purely L.A. places that I loved: Amoeba Records, Olvera Street where the city was born, citrus trees bursting with color and their bright and exhilarating aroma, and people! So many people, each one kinder and friendlier than the last!
In the middle of the trip, I experienced some of the best, most surprising hospitality I’ve ever received. I was staying in a converted pool house behind a bungalow in Burbank that looked just like the L.A. houses I’d seen in movies. My friends and I decided in advance that gathering at my place and then going out for dinner was the best, most workable plan for everyone since people were coming from different parts of the city. Being a good guest, I asked my host if that was okay.
Not only did she say yes, but she invited us to dinner. It was her best friend’s birthday and she was making homemade lasagna. We were welcome to join.
I’ve stayed in a lot of AirBnBs, but this was a first. Not wanting to impose, I thanked her and said we’d be fine.
But then, while we were browsing a sushi menu for dinner, I got an emergency phone call from a friend back home. I went to my bedroom to take the call. When I returned, my friends were gathered around the coffee table with a serving platter of caprese crostini and a bottle of wine, brought to us by the host, who then knocked on the door with plates of lasagna filled with fresh vegetables. And then cheesecake topped with fresh berries. And cappuccinos with sidecars of homemade limoncello! This delicious three-course spread easily would have been pushing $100 per person at any restaurant in the area, and here we were, strangers, eating for free.
Afterward, we joined our host, her bestie, and her Rottweiler on our shared patio for an evening of wine and giggles around the fireplace.
The trip ended with our night with Patti at the concert hall. By then—March 6, 2020—the first case of Covid had hit LAX. I most likely scored that Jaguar because so many people had started canceling their trips out of caution. We all knew something awful that we couldn’t imagine was looming. Mother Patti ended her show with a talk, telling us to not be afraid, to help one another, turn to each other for help, and work to sort the lies that were already drowning out the truth.
It was the perfect message for a perfect trip. And a reminder that I’ve been rolling around my brain these last few days as the federal government has sent troops into this city I surprised myself by loving. A city that feels like home.
So many people hold misconceptions about Los Angeles, just like I did. When I was a kid, I could attribute my dislike to learned behavior. My parents don’t like cities. The bigger the city, the less they like it. I’ve always been the opposite, even before I really got to experience a true big city. I knew cities had what I wanted: music, art, weird people like me, foods from other countries, creativity, potential for adventures, and treasures I couldn’t imagine. And I was right.
And yet, I held tight to my preconceived notions about Los Angeles, just like so many conservative-leaning people do, until I was well past the age of thinking for myself. And I’m no conservative, I’m open-minded about damn near everything. But I wasn’t about L.A. until I was an embarrassing 47 years old.
It’s Sunday, June 8th as I write this, less than 24 hours since the National Guard was deputized and ordered into the peaceful protests against ICE in L.A. I’m not sad about this—I am fucking livid about this. How dare so many people in this country root for turning any part of this country into a war zone? Who the fuck voted for this human rights travesty? How dare they touch my girl?
It’s easy to do when you think of any place as “other.” And there are a lot of people wandering through America thinking that what they see on Bravo and the news is Los Angeles.
It is not.
Los Angeles is fruit carts on street corners, and blazing grills loaded with seasoned meat for tacos in front Target on a Friday night.
Los Angeles is feral cats and unhoused people under the freeway overpasses, and the multitudes of people working to help them.
She’s the twists and curves cruising through Laurel Canyon to the lights of the Sunset Strip.
She’s coffee and pie in NoHo with a cute stranger, and boxes of home-grown Meyer lemons and tangerines grown in a friend’s yard.
She’s window sandwiches and Middle Eastern fast food, silly secret menus everyone knows.
She’s creative people with their dreams and courage, sitting in cafes with their laptops, trying to make them a reality.
She’s lowriders, souped-up Buick Regals, Kobe murals, and taking pictures of the palm trees through the moonroof.
She’s vulnerable and burns, cracks open, and heals.
And Los Angeles will kick fascist ass, just as she’s done so many times in the past when white supremacist forces have threatened her Latinos, Asians, Blacks, and Indigenous people. I’m here to help, starting by telling the truth about a city I wrongfully dismissed for far too long:
Los Angeles is America.
Fuck ICE. Viva Los Angeles!